We are all familiar with the mystery or suspense movie scene
in which the person about to be killed reveals to his assassin that he has
strategically hidden information about the identity of his killer. In the event of his death, that package of
incriminating evidence will be sent to the authorities, guaranteeing an arrest
and conviction.
The good news is the killer usually relents, with a sneer,
and allows the potential victim to live, thereby giving the story’s author more
time to create more twists and turns than Chubby Checker on a skateboard.
My sainted wife and I just returned from a lengthy road trip
after some time away from home. It
seemed as though we were packing for a covered wagon trip across the Great
Divide.
While dutifully packing our spacious SUV for the ride, I
actually incorporated one of those nifty baskets that slide into the trailer
receiver, allowing for the moving of even more unnecessary junk.
Our trips also include the transportation of Smokey the
Cat. He has a particularly large metal
cage in which he silently rests. The
cage size precludes us from fitting three sofas and a recliner hence, the
exterior basket.
Packing must begin two nights before the actual trip so as
not to spook Smokey who is truly adept at hiding. Although he doesn’t scream during the fifteen
hours of the fifteen-hour trip, he doesn’t enjoy being locked in a cage for
length of time, either.
He has many placed to hide, and does so, well. Finding him to situate him in his cage is
laborious. So, we fake him out and rely
on his short-term memory loss to pack a day in advance. Then, we pounce on him before he knows it.
But, it’s my sainted wife that gives me chest pains. Much like that aforementioned movie scenario,
I am telling all of you that my sainted wife is ardently trying to kill me.
She knows what our car looks like but fails to see the
volume of space available. When we pack,
she invariably proclaims she has only “two small bags.” These “two small bags” are roughly the size
of sea bags – akin to the type in which sailors schlep their belongings around
the world for two year periods.
This regular surprise is presented to me just as the cooler
the size of a snowmobile is stuffed into the remaining two-foot square space.
“Here are my ‘little’ bags,” she cheerily announces.
With Smokey looking on in bemusement, I offer her ‘thanks’
to begin the unpacking and rearrangement process.
T.J. Lawrence, also known as Lawrence of Arabia, didn’t take
this much stuff on his adventure in the Sahara Desert
With the trip now delayed another two hours, we finally have
everything in place. Six miles down the
road, though, my sainted wife mumbles something about stopping for ice for the
cooler. Too bad the cooler is now tucked
neatly beneath the “little bags” and cast iron bathtub. Smokey grins over the situation.
In the event of my untimely death, call the police and tell
them she was responsible.
